Taps
by Kurai Hitokiri
Summary: 'Grandpa, I love you, I hope you know that.' Blythe Cohen promised her Grandfather she'd play Taps at his funeral. She pays her last respects by keeping her promise. Rated T for mild swearing.


**A/N:** Hello, my name is Kurai Hitokiri. I usually write in the Zelda section because... well, it's ZELDA. I'll be writing a story here very soon, so I felt as though I needed to test the waters for my new character: Blythe Cohen. She'll be the protagonist in the story that I'll be writing here called **The Bargain**. So here's a little slice of my writing, in the form of angst. Blythe's Grandpa has just died. Before he died, he asked her to play **Taps** at his funeral, and she promised that she would. Includes little snipits and what not. Please **read and review** and thank you for taking time out of your day to read this story.

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><p><strong>The Bargain<strong>

Rated: T

Summary: "_Her hands shook as she held the letter in her hands, tears of resignation slipping down her face."_ A new school, Hershall Middle School, is built near sixth grade Trumpeter Blythe Cohen's house, forcing her to attend, leaving behind the friends she's known for many years. Blythe's band director, Ms. Saunders, offers her a bargain that will change her life forever.

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><p><strong>Taps<strong>

Kurai Hitokiri

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><p>I love you, Grandpa. Do you know that?<p>

At least… I hope you would know that. I'll never **really** be sure if you knew, though. Because you're gone and I'm still here.

I'm still here, standing outside in this godforsaken blizzard, partially sheltered by the marble columns of the cloister where so many people are sleeping. Waiting to be woken from their slumber by the call of memories seeping forth from the minds of their loved ones.

And you're sleeping right here beside me, in this golden mess of a coffin with etchings of Leonardo Da Vinci's '_The Last Supper.'_ I can imagine the smirk that would play on your lips as you took in the gilded, fancy thing beside me as you say "_my God, what a sarcophagus __**that **__monstrosity is! Sweetheart, never trust a guy who would spend his money of a fancy-schmancy getup!"_

But I know that inside, you'd be grateful. I know that you would've loved it. You always loved things that people you loved chose for you, because beneath that whole tough-guy act, I know…

_Knew_ that you were one huge softie.

The locks are fastened on the casket, my heart stuck in my throat because I want to shout "unlock it! Grandpa's gonna need to get out! He wants his molasses cookie!"

You're never leaving that coffin again though, are you?

My hands shake as I watch one stern soldier step far from us, shining silver horn glinting in the sparse light of the snow. His hat sunk low over his eyes, shadowing his features from view, making him seem indifferent.

The horn goes to his lips, blindingly white gloves operating the keys as the familiar tones of '_Taps'_ echo eerily through the sleeping grounds.

I'm fighting the smile that wants to burst forth onto my lips at this. You've always said that you wanted this sort of dignified end. You always said "yous 'r so ungrateful! When I die, I want a goddamn _parade_!"

And then you'd lower your guard and look at me with that soft, special look of yours, set a hand gently to my head and say: "_when I die, you're gonna play __**Taps**__ for me on that horn of yours, right?"_

You'd always loved your music… it wasn't really any surprise when you suggested something like that. Though I would've thought you'd have requested your all-time favorite '_Danny Boy'_ ("_I'm a goddamn Irishman, and I demand to be TREATED like one!")_

When I first started playing Trumpet, you were ecstatic.

"_My little girl is gonna be a regular Miles by the time she hits adolescence!"_ You'd sit next to me on the couch whenever you were in town, face glowing as I struggled to even get a sound out of my instrument. You'd request songs and clap ecstatically whenever I finished a song, no matter how craptastic I sounded at the end of the day.

On the phone, you'd request some new songs, or you'd talk to me about all your favorite classical pieces.

Pachelbel, Mozart, and Beethoven could be heard in mighty swells in the background during the weekdays whilst the occasional Dizzy Gillespie and Woody Herman piece would croon to my sensitive ears over the weekend.

"_Music heals the soul," _you told me once over a particularly rousing recording of one of Rachmaninoff's symphonies. "_At least, that's what those artsy people on the radio say."_

Now that I think of it, so much of my love of music hinged on **you**. I've never really realized it till now…

In the background, the bagpipes (that you just HAD to insist that you have at your funeral… I swear, from beyond the grave, you are reveling in every single moment of this) sound an annoyingly loud version of "Danny Boy" in your honor.

Gramps, I know that you loved your bagpipes, but I wish you'd had consideration for my ears. But if it's what you wanted, then I can't complain.

In the innermost corners of my mind, I can still hear your deep baritone echo the lyrics over the subtle tones of my Trumpet. The two voices clashing against each other, fighting.

That song was your favorite. I want to **play** that song for you.

But not until everyone else has left us alone.

Some things were meant for your ears only, Grandpa. This is one of those things that is meant as such. It's my final gift to you.

Your wife's clutching at my arm as they gently slide you into your spot, right beside Grandma. She buries her face into my arm, soaking the shoulder with frosty tears as they apply glue to the seal fastening several layers of tiles over it.

A gloved hand goes to the golden necklace, two eighth note pairs, dangling from my neck, warming the cool metal and kissing it gently as I watch.

There are no more tears left in my eyes. Those left the night Dad woke me up and told me you passed away mere seconds before.

There was nothing left in me after that.

The voice of the soldier's Trumpet dies, swallowed by the chaos of Mother Nature. The last cry echoes in my ears, leaving me to the sound of my own breathing, reminding me that I am still alive.

Breaking me forth from the walls of memories that have assaulted me through the voice of music.

One by one, people shuffle away till I am left, standing in the corridor, clouds of cool smoke issuing forth from my rosy lips as I bend down to open the battered instrument case at my feet.

I lift my gold lacquered horn from its velvet prison, pushing the mouthpiece in whilst buzzing my lips, willing them to thaw as gray eyes soften at the wall.

"Hi Grandpa," my voice echoes, my eyes briefly flickering about to make sure that there are no people in the general vicinity. I step forward, shoes clacking lightly against the white marble as I place a tentative hand on your resting place. "You did well… and I hope that everything's alright."

"I want to play _Taps_ for you," I say after a moment of silence. "After all, I did promise. And what sort of granddaughter would I be if I didn't keep my promises to a swell guy like you?" Sarcasm laces every note of my voice.

I laugh, imagining you sitting there with that "you're damn right" smirk that you were so fond of. The memory sends a wave of fresh warmth barreling through my mind as I bring my Trumpet to my lips.

'_What you deserve, Gramps.'_

The notes come out softly, filling the chilly air with finality as they leave the horn in gentle streams.

Eyes close, emotions fill every gap of the mind as I let the sorrow, the happiness, and the pain every moment rest there in a wellspring of feeling. Everything that I've wanted to say sounds out in the music.

And there, I can see you smile wistfully in the light, shoving your hands into your pockets as you give a tentative bow. Gray orbs fill to the brim with tears, falling in steady streams down wrinkled cheeks.

"_I'm not a good man, Blythe. But I'm a decent man. No matter what, never believe the bullshit anyone feeds you. And just… remember-."_

The notes of _Taps_ bend and fade into a last mournful wail as tears trickle down the fissures of my usually composed features. The silver Trumpet falls from my lips as gray meets gray one last moment.

"_Grandpa loves you."_

You fade from existence as the last note falls into oblivion.

I just stand there, staring at the unmarked wall, silently sobbing, water oozing mournfully from my eyes and solidifying in the cold.

I take a few moments to compose myself, wiping the frost from my eyes, bending down to lay my horn to rest within its velvety home.

I rest a hand upon the contours of the wall, running it down to trace your name as I slowly part my lips.

"I love you too."


End file.
